


Brave

by Judopixie



Category: Colditz (1972)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood Loss, Blood and Gore, Child Abuse, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fainting, Gunshot Wounds, Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort, Making Out, Men Crying, Military Backstory, Nausea, Nightmares, Old Age, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Remarriage, Self-Worth Issues, Stabbing, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3758695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Judopixie/pseuds/Judopixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>10 times Horst Mohn was brave and 1 time he wished he was braver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crimsondust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsondust/gifts).



1

4th of March 1925

Horst held his little brother close to his chest as the shouting continued. It was the fourth time in as many days Papa had come home angry drunk, he hardly ever came home happy drunk, Horst couldn’t even remember the last time he came home sober. If he was honest with himself he wasn’t sure Papa had ever come home sober. Franz almost always ended up crawling in with him when the shouting started, cuddling tight to him and pulling the covers over his head to try and block out whatever vile names their father was screaming at Mama tonight. He jumped when the door creaked open and Bruno and Gretel wordlessly ran to join the two of them in the hug. Gretel was crying, Franz had buried his face in Horst’s shoulder, Bruno was clinging to his teddy and not for the first time Horst wanted to cry himself. Why couldn’t Papa just stop? Why did they have to be scared every night instead of tucked up in bed safe and sound like the other boys in school? They all flinched when the first slap sounded, their parents must be on the landing by now; they could hear Mama sobbing as Papa shouted. He tried to murmur something comforting to his siblings but he was drowned out by the tightness in his chest and a second slap. The third slap was when he pushed Franz into Gretel’s arms and threw himself into his father as hard as he could. So what? They wouldn’t be the first bruises he’d had.

2

26th of July 1931

The sound of the door slamming still echoed around the house. Horst supposed he should be relieved; Papa was gone and from the sounds of it he wouldn’t be coming back. He should have been relieved, but he wasn’t. Gretel was cleaning the scratches on his cheek, Mama was consoling his brothers who were white-faced and shaking, _he_ was shaking and a touch nauseous and somehow the idea of a life with no shouting or fighting was far scarier than a life with it. He was vaguely aware of Mama sending the others to bed and coming to sit beside him on the stairs. He heard her talking but the words themselves made no sense, he felt her take his hands gently and rub small circles with her thumbs. She was talking again, something about her being sorry and things being fine, but that was ridiculous, he couldn’t make things fine, couldn’t pick up the pieces, he didn’t have any idea where to begin. He jumped as her fingers found his chin and gently moved his face to look at him properly, from her face she didn’t like what she saw.

“Horst? Can you hear me?”

He nodded.

“Are you alright?”

He shook his head and the tears that had been threatening finally spilled out over his cheeks as his mother pulled him into a hug and held him there whilst he sobbed. He should probably have felt embarrassed about that but couldn’t find the energy anymore. Mama was running a hand over his dark hair and he could smell her scent of fresh bread and wood smoke. Tomorrow he’d go out and try to get a job, try and work something out. His head was killing him and he still didn’t know how to fix things, but he knew he wanted to try.

3

21st June 1933

Horst licked his lips as he handed the consent forms to his mother. Her sigh told him all he needed to know.

“Horst, are you sure?” She said, her eyes even more pleading than last time.

“Mama, you know I am.” He took her hands the same way she had when Papa left.

“I know, but are you sure you’re sure?”

“What alternative is there? There isn’t any more work here, this way there’ll be one less mouth to feed and once I’m out of training I can start sending money back for you.” They’d been through this what felt like a thousand times and the answer always came out the same.

Mama sighed again, she knew it was the most logical thing to do but she still tried to make one last ditch attempt to convince him otherwise. “It’ll be dangerous for you.”

“It’ll be dangerous for all of us if we don’t have enough money for food. I’ll take the risk.”

She signed the forms wordlessly, pulling him forward to kiss his hair as he reached for them.

“When will you tell the others?” She asked.

“Tomorrow? It seems pointless to wait.” She nodded her agreement and got up from the table.

“Goodnight Horst.”

“Goodnight Mama.” As Horst watched his painfully thin mother move towards the stairs he suddenly wondered when she’d started to look quite so beaten down.

4

27th July 1933

Horst bit his lip in the darkness. Saying goodbye had been painful, Gretel had cried, Franz and Mama had tried not to, Bruno hadn’t come at all. Now, lying in his bunk at the barracks he tried to swallow the lump of fear and homesickness that had been growing since he’d stepped off the train to be met with a small, red faced, ratty moustached corporal who’d barked at the small group until they had been handed to a small, red faced, ratty moustached sergeant, he was already developing a fear of the type. He was the youngest there, it wasn’t surprising but it did nothing to alleviate his fears about the coming day. He had flinched almost every time anyone had shouted, he hoped none of the trainers had noticed; he was already terrified of whatever the next day would bring and a weakness of his would be exploited. He wondered if he was up to this, he wasn’t weak but the stress and the lack of money over the last few months had made him thin, a few people had looked him up and down as he stepped in the truck. The message of ‘how did you get in?’ would have been quieter if they’d said it aloud.

The silver moonlight shone through the gap in the moth-eaten curtains and gleamed off the open eyes of the boy in the bunk next to him. He pulled his face into what he hoped was an encouraging smile and though Horst couldn’t see him properly he felt sure that the boy was smiling back at him. The gleam disappeared as the boy closed his eyes and Horst followed his example, settling on the steely determination that had been his principle emotion these last few weeks and relaxing enough to let the other boy’s breathing lull him to sleep.

5

16th February 1936

The wind was cold on Horst’s face. The instructor’s droning was partially drowned out by the sound of it. He caught the eyes of the boy across the plane who seemed no more reassured by the speech than Horst himself. He must’ve been mad to come here, who jumped out of a perfectly good plane with only a piece of fabric to stop them falling to certain death? Someone had joked that the fall wouldn’t kill them, it would be the stop at the end. It hadn’t helped.

Once he had gotten over his homesickness he had excelled in basic training, graduated as a leutenant as top of the class and when his instructors had highly suggested he put his name down for the Fallschirimjager it had sounded like enormous fun. He had yet to work out what he had been thinking.

The instructor’s call shook him from his trance and they began to line up to take their jumps, most checking they were actually wearing their parachutes first. As the instructor shouted to jump Horst watched the line steadily getting closer him. This would be jump one, five more to go. When the line reached him he took his run up, swallowed a lump of possibly panic, possibly vomit, closed his eyes and leapt.

One down, five to go.

 

6

14th March 1937

Horst had been forcing this smile all evening. Kurt Verkaik, ex-soldier, sensible drinker, all around honourable man who was taking care of his mother. He shouldn’t feel this on edge about the man. He shouldn’t, but he did. His mother was alone here now that Franz was in the Luftwaffe, Verkaik may have been old but he was clearly still strong. Horst fixed the smile back on as his mother deposited the last of the dinner plates in the sink.

“Horst, can I have a word?” She asked.

“Of course Mama.” He replied.

“Has Kurt upset you?”

“Upset me Mama?”

“Horst that smile looks like you’ve got rigor mortis. What’s wrong?”

“You spring the fact you have a new boyfriend on me with no warning and you’re asking me what’s wrong?”

Mama sighed, her face falling.

“Horst, I know you’re wary, you have every right to be, but Kurt’s not like you’re father. He’s good to me.”

“Papa must’ve been good to you once.” Horst argued.

“You saw him tonight, he only drinks a little, he’s a good man.”

“And what if one day he’s not? Bruno’s in the Heer, Gretel’s in Stuttgard, what if one day he turns nasty and you’re alone with him?”

“He won’t sweetheart, things have changed.” Mama’s hand cupped his face.

Horst took her hand gently and she pulled him in for a hug. Resting his head on her shoulder Horst felt his eyes prickle a little.

“I’m scared Mama.”

“Why my love?” She said soothingly, her hands rubbing his back.

“Because I don’t want you to go through that again.”

Mama sighed again, holding him tighter. “I won’t have to Horst, Kurt is different.”

“Is he?”

Mama pulled away and took him by the shoulders. “Do you trust me Horst?”

He nodded.

“If I said I’ll be alright you’d believe me?”

“I don’t know…”

She pulled him closer again, kissing his hair.

“Do you remember the night before you went into the Luftwaffe? When you said that it was a chance at a better life for all of us?”

Horst nodded, he didn’t think he’d ever forget it.

“And that even though it could be dangerous you wanted to try?”

He nodded again.

“It’s just like that Horst, I love Kurt and he loves me. I know you’re scared of him, after what your father put all of you through I don’t blame you, but this is a good thing, for all of us.”

Horst pulled back a little, swiping at his eyes.

“I think I’ll go to bed when I’ve finished the dishes.” He said “It was a long day.” He meant that he didn’t want her to see him fall apart and they both knew it.

“I’ll see you in the morning then.” Was all Mama said as she kissed his brow gently and moved towards the door.

“Oh and Mama.” Horst said.

“Yes?” Mama replied, turning around.

“If he ever hurts you I’ll kill him.” Horst turned back to his dishes as he heard his mother laugh.

“Goodnight Horst.”

“Goodnight Mama.”

 

7

26th May 1941

Horst’s ears were ringing. It seemed like the machine guns would never stop firing, the pain in his shoulder had increased tenfold and he was beginning to feel faint. His comrades had tried to stem the bleeding from the cuts near his eye and tied the gunshot wound at his shoulder as tight as they dared but he was soaked in blood, the smell was making him nauseous. Another man took his rifle from him and they dragged him a few more feet before he collapsed in the mouth of a cave. They shoved his head between his knees as his vision turned grey at the edges.

He vaguely heard one of the younger officers saying that they should leave him behind, saying that he was in no condition to command. The phrase ‘liability’ made its way through the fog in his brain.

“We’re taking him.” Hans’s deep voice cut through the chatter. “We don’t leave our men behind.”

The huge man crouched beside Horst, his hand felt very warm on his cold wrist.

“Can you walk?” He asked, wrapping his jacket around Horst’s shoulders.

Horst nodded, his head taking far too much effort to move. Hans helped him to his feet, his head swimming as he did so. He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it as the metallic scent of blood hit him in the back of the throat. He gagged a few times before vomiting up what seemed like everything in his stomach and then some. His shoulder was throbbing again and a high pitched buzzing took over his hearing. Those junior officers were talking again, even Hans’s distinctive voice sounded blurred; someone was handing him a bottle of water, which they sensibly kept a hand on since he didn’t think his own were capable of holding anything. There was angry shouting now, the person who’d given him the water was asking if he needed to sit down, someone was saying something about bandages, someone else was saying something with the word ‘shock’ in it.

Gun fire ripped through the bickering. All hell broke loose as enemies stormed the cave. Two people dragged Horst to his feet and pulled him out of the cave all guns blazing, his shoulder screaming in pain as he attempted to keep up with the others.

Heavy feet pounded behind them as they ran blindly into the madness of the night.

 

8

26th October 1941

Horst bolted upright in bed. He looked around frantically for a moment before finding his bearings. Anna was awake, he almost wished she wasn’t. She shouldn’t have to see him like this. His breath was coming quick and sharp, tears rolled down his cheeks and his heart thumped hard enough to make him queasy.

The same nightmare. The same nightmare every single night for 4 months. It had taken him a while to remember. The first few nights he’d been so out of it on painkillers and pain itself that he’d hardly noticed anything else, and for a few nights after that he’d been so soundly asleep that he’d dreamed of nothing. It was a few nights after he was discharged that they’d begun in earnest, always the same. He got shot, he fled with his comrades, they’d found their hiding place, his comrades all died, he got captured. He knew it wasn’t true, Hans had found him passed out in a ditch the day after they’d been forced to leave the cave and he’d been shipped out to a hospital on the first plane to leave, but it was no less terrifying. The gunfire still blasted in his ears, he still felt guilty over the death of Fritz. Crete was so beautiful from the air, on the ground it was full of people ready to rip you to pieces.

Suddenly the moonlight wasn’t enough anymore, he reached over and snapped on the lamp on the bedside table to chase some of the shadows away. He lightly touched Anna’s arm and her eyes opened, no point in continuing the pretence. Horst leaned into her as her arms closed around him, she lay back and didn’t flinch when he lay his head on her shoulder. She ran her hands through his sweat drenched hair, murmuring softly just as his mother used to do. His heart began to slow, the tears dried up and it was easier to breath.

“Better?” Anna asked.

“Better.” He replied, still a little shaky. “Anna?”

“Yes?”

“Do you remember when I first started having the nightmares and you wanted me to talk about them?”

“Yes, why?”

“I want to talk about them.”

Anna pulled him closer, careful of his ever growing list of wounds. “Talk to me.”

He talked. He talked about the original nightmares, with his father and his roaring temper, and of the ones from Spain and Belgium, of Crete and its roasting heat and finally the sick mashups of all of them. Once he’d started talking he couldn’t stop, it just came pouring out along with fresh tears that Anna’s nightdress soaked up. His head throbbed by the end but strangely he felt a little better. Anna had said nothing, just held him against her, warm and soft and smelling of her perfume. He shifted to look her in the face properly. There were tears in her own eyes and her smile was sad. She kissed his cheek warmly, only reacting a little when Horst pulled back and kissed her lips. Small, light kisses that grew into the rougher, deeper ones they usually reserved for foreplay. He only broke the kiss when his headache became unbearable. They lay for a moment, both breathing hard, until Horst snuggled his head back to Anna’s shoulder. He was just on the edges of sleep when he heard Anna’s whispered ‘I love you.’

He smiled, “I love you too.”

 

9

6th January 1943

Horst rubbed at the headache beginning to form at his temples. Three days with little food and less sleep was wearing him down, wearing all of them down. The whole unit was tense, his men were exhausted, _he_ was exhausted.

They were hiding in a broken ruin that might once have been a house. There was a crater in the corner of the room, the walls were scorched and there was a suspiciously meaty smell to the place. Three days they’d been here now, with the exception of ammunition they were short on everything, food, water and patience. Whatever he did he had to do it soon.

Standing up he made his way over to Hans, attempting to ignore the slightly off balance feeling that had started yesterday afternoon. Hans didn’t even turn as he crouched next to him.

“You’re supposed to be resting.” Hans said without looking up.

“Can’t sleep.”

“Try.”

“Have.”

“What do you want to talk about then?”

Horst sighed. “What the fuck are we going to do Hans?”

“Cry to Mama?” Hans replied sarcastically.

“I’m serious!” Horst shouted, causing a few of the very un-merry men to look around at the pair of them.

“You remember what happened the last time we started arguing about whether to stay or go don’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“Horst we’re running out of water, we’ve run out of food, patience is next on the list very shortly followed by ammunition, if you can think of a way to make this situation worse please tell me.”

“They could drop a grenade on us.”

Hans had to concede he had a point.

“We could just go out there and see what happens.” Hans said.

“Isn’t that a suicide mission?”

“No more so than staying here. Who knows, we might even surprise them by getting back to base.”

“That’d please the cooks, they’re in a foul mood as it is.”

“Aren’t they always in a foul mood?”

“No fouler than their cooking.” Horst retorted, Hans laughed.

“We’re going out then?”

Horst nodded, the urge to get the whole thing over with suddenly overwhelming.

There was less grumbling at the idea of going through the Russian lines than Horst expected, the men seemed almost happy to be up and moving; they quickly organized a plan and they were out of their little hidey-hole within the hour, crouching at the edge of the below street level front ‘garden’. The plan started fine, two grenades straight into the middle of the small band of Russian troops, dazing those who weren’t killed, then push through to the remaining few to the clock tower they could see. The Russians even began to fall back a little. Horst started to think they might just get back to base with their now platoon-sized company still mostly intact. Then they ran into the large group by the bridge and their troubles multiplied. Even that had been going as well as could be expected with men who had hardly slept in three days, until he’d run over to check if a recently surrounded Hans was alright. Just a second, just a split second was all it had taken. He even heard the squelch as the bayonet went in. His knife found the man’s heart almost instinctively, but the damage had been done. He heard himself screaming and someone else, probably Hans, shouting. The few seconds he lasted before blacking out felt like hours.

The nurse had told him later that his friends had made a stretcher out of greatcoats and rifles tided together to get him back to base. He vaguely wondered whether that had been Hans’s idea, not that he’d ever know. It was hard to ask questions to a dead man.

 

10

15th May 1944

Horst sat in his bedroom the sheets were rumbled and tears still ran down his face from the nightmare.

He hadn't slept properly since he came here. The nightmares had grown worse as time had passed.

He hadn't tried to make enemies here, hadn't tried to be so unlikable. He supposed it must be talent. Being called to the Kommandant's office for a dressing down was routine now. He took all the anger and disappointment the man could throw at him in stony silence. He probably deserved it anyway. He tried make himself liked among the prisoners, had asked about their service or their families. He still couldn't ignore the way they stopped their activities when he approached and didn't resume until he had passed.

He had even tried to be social in the mess, tried to make small talk about music or girls or whatever topic of the night was. They’d frowned when he didn’t want to talk about his family, and the unfriendly glances thrown his way confirmed what he’d thought the first night. He wasn't stupid, he knew when he was unwanted. He knew he shouldn't care about the opinions of the officers, certainly shouldn't care about the opinions of the prisoners, yet he couldn't stop himself feeling that little flash of sadness when he read the loving letters the prisoners received, or when one of the officers favoured Ulmann with a smile. It was hard not to be jealous of Ulmann. The man was liked by most, respected by all, he passed his fitness ratings with A1s, his marriage was happy and he was good at his job. Horst had been a good soldier, that was it. He wasn't even that anymore, he'd be a liability on the battlefield now. He was an invalid. A weak, useless, pathetic invalid. A burden to his fatherland. His stomach cramped tightly, it felt like the bayonet was still in it. Twisting.

Some part of his brain insisted not everyone here could hate him. It quickly lost its battles for attention. He doubted anyone even knew, he doubted even more that they cared. He was alone here. He and Anna were falling to pieces in front of him, Mama had Kurt and Heidi now, Heidi was young enough to forget a half-brother she'd only known for the first 5 years of her life. And Franz, Franz would care. But Franz would want him to be happy wouldn't he? He'd understand that Horst would take any opportunity for happiness he could find.

What if he didn't? Franz would be alone now that Gretel was missing and Bruno was dead. Could he really leave his baby brother alone on the eastern front? He remembered receiving the letter from Bruno's company commander to tell him he was dead. Franz would tell him to give it one more try, tell him he believed he could make it through another night.

Horst looked to the loaded gun that sat on the sheets. He slammed it into a drawer.

One more try. His 42nd one more try.

 

+1

20th April 1989

Horst’s breath rattled through his throat. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt come to think of it. He was old, it was to be expected. He wasn’t sure when he’d become old, it’d just crept up on him like Ulmann. He gazed around the little flat that he’d called home since he’d arrived in Switzerland 44 years ago. Took in the little yellow kitchen cabinets, the dark floorboards, the peeling wallpaper in a variety of hilariously hideous prints. The sheets were crumpled, sweaty and filthy. He would’ve washed them had he been able to find the strength.

He coughed again, a larger than healthy amount of blood coming out with it. His body looked thin even through the sheets, his cheekbones were too sharp in his deathbed-pale face. He couldn’t really remember when he’d last eaten.

His fingers searched under his pillow until he came across a small, crumpled photograph. He still looked young there, his arm around Anna’s waist. They were beaming at the camera, a young couple still content and hopeful for the future. He still dreamt about what they might have been. That was stupid. They were falling to pieces, much like he had been. His last days had been hell, they must’ve thought he’d lost his mind. He probably had. Blackmail, bullying, abysmal attempts to connect with prisoners, even he thought he’d lost his mind. He looked to the black medal clutched in his other hand. A picture of Anna and a medal he nearly died for, he almost laughed at his priorities. He’d never gotten close to another person after her, it was a risk he couldn’t take. Perhaps that was sad, trapped alone at night with his chess and his nightmares waiting for the respite of a boring job for a hateful man. He regretted leaving, far better to have been taken a prisoner than remembered as a coward. He wondered if anyone else had left, he’d heard the SS fled the town just before the Americans arrived. Franz was a famous doctor now, living in Berlin with a perfectly lovely wife and three daughters, Horst read about him in the newspapers from time to time. He used to be in the newspapers, Major Horst Mohn, war hero and soldier of the fatherland. He never found out if they’d found Gretel, Heidi would be grown up with children of her own. Mama, something told him she’d never have stopped looking for him after he left. His eyes prickled at the thought she’d never know.

Horst brushed the thinning hair from the face of the lifeless man in the bed. He took the man’s bony hand, it was cold now. He took the photo and the medal and put them in his pocket. It felt strange to walk, his shoulder wasn’t stiff and his stomach didn’t hurt. He could just see himself in the dull reflection from the kettle. Tall, slim, dark haired and pale skinned. So very like the old man in the bed, and yet nothing like him at all.

He left the door open as he stepped out into the cool, just-dawn air. Someone would need to find his body, it would smell otherwise. He walked through the quiet streets, no one saw him, he didn’t suppose anyone would now. He felt himself compelled to take a certain route, the morning sun in his face as he went through the buildings, and the walls. It was the fastest way, East North East as the crow flies. He could be in the Black Forest by the end of the week, cradled forever in its dark, ferny woods.

It wasn’t a very fitting way for a soldier to return home, but Horst Mohn would be home nonetheless.


End file.
